


How Do You Learn to Forgive Yourself?

by TeyrianTimelord



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeyrianTimelord/pseuds/TeyrianTimelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>004 dies on Q's watch. James proves to be an unexpected source of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Do You Learn to Forgive Yourself?

**Author's Note:**

> Told you I'd try my hand at straight up 00Q! I've actually been sitting on this fic since December, but just never got around to posting it. In other news, I'm starting a collection of AvengeWhoBondLock University AU oneshots and drabbles, so keep an eye out for those.
> 
> Enjoy, my lovelies! Reviews and comments are always appreciated.

It was almost artful, the way Q’s fingers moved so swiftly from key to key without hesitation while his eyes never looked down from the three screens projected in front of him. Behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, his dark eyes flitted over code flashing on each one with a speed that was unnatural even for an MI6 skillset. He was like a sculptor chiseling away at unpolished marble to free the masterpiece locked in stone. It was a surprise that the kid found time to breathe or blink, much less drink tea, but he was already signaling for one of his minions to fetch him a third cup. Though his thin frame usually made him look fragile, standing in the middle of the Q-Branch floor, the Quartermaster could not have seemed taller or more powerful, the air around him adjusting to the amount of confidence and authority he was exuding on the spot. Q was in the prime of his element, and Bond regretted not taking the time to watch him work sooner.

“It’s a bit terrifying how brilliant he is,” Eve whispered to avoid distracting the young computer genius. “It’s easy to forget why M hired him when you don’t see him in action”  
James only smirked in acknowledgement. Except for the brief moments before Silva’s escape, he had only been on the receiving end of Q’s work. It was second nature for him at this point, putting his life into the young man’s hands, but there was still something incredible to watch the process from the other side (even if he didn’t understand a third of what Q was doing). 004 was on a mission in Nalchik trailing one of the most prominent Chechen Shahidkas, undercover with the Black Widows to find their next targets, and with her extraction only an hour away all the logistics and defense detail pressure fell to Q. He was planning routes, sending other operatives to cut down obstacles, and hijacking video feeds all while giving 004 instructions through his earpiece. Bond had to admit, he was impressed. His visions of Q-Branch were primarily made up of geeks hunched over laptops whispering to each other through headsets. He had not been expecting this much energy or efficiency. 

“Soon he won’t even need us,” James mumbled, half to Eve and half to himself. 

Moneypenny leaned over and opened her mouth but before she could respond, all hell broke loose on the floor. Screens flashed red, computer analysts yelled at each other over tables, and Q’s proper posture deteriorated in a blink. He was hunched over his keyboard, one hand frantically typing while the other cupped over his ear to better hear what was coming through the Bluetooth. Out of instinct more than anything else, James immediately bolted to his Quartermaster’s side, but Q gave him no attention.

“004, what is your current location? 004?! Julia, what is your current location?!” he shouted into the mic before ripping it out of his ear and throwing it across the room. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, R, tell me we still have some form of connection!”

His second-in-command was in a similar state of panic, one phone cradled between her shoulder and her face and another in her hands while texting at twice the speed of an average teenager. 

“Only her vitals, but even that’s wearing thin.”

James felt like a ghost at his own funeral. His job as a Double 0 was to be the best of MI6; to do the jobs no one else could. To stand in the heart of British intelligence and be absolutely useless while the fate of one of his equals hung in the balance was aliening. He was the only still figure in a sea of rushing operatives hurling themselves every which way in a mad scramble to reconnect with the quickly fading agent. For the first time in years, Bond felt something akin to anxiety. Suddenly, just as quickly as the explosion of panic had started, it died. Every agent froze and looked down at their screens. 004’s picture appeared on them all, along with a box that said “FIELD OPERATIVE 004 JULIA M. EXETER. STATUS: DECEASED.”

The whole room remained completely silent for 30 seconds, everyone holding their breaths. James’ eyes slowly drifted to Q. The man who had only minutes before been standing like an emperor now slumped over his desk, both hands gripping the edges so hard his fingernails dug into the wood and his knuckles blanched. His face had lost all its previous color and passion, leaving him dead eyed and pale as he gazed emptily at 004’s identification photograph. It was at that moment Bond remembered Exeter had a son Q’s age. 

“Go home, everyone,” he ordered exhaustedly just loud enough for his underlings to hear. “We lost.”

***  
Every light in Q-Branch was dimmed except for the one from Q’s private office. It was a common occurrence for him to stay later than anyone else to write codes or design new weapons. Sometimes R had to drag him out by his cardigan and forcibly shove him into a cab to get him to go home. On any other night, Bond would have ignored it and gone back to his flat, but after everything went up in flames today, he was less inclined to leave Q behind. When he opened the office door he expected to see the Quartermaster working on his laptop or fiddling with some new gadgets. The last thing he was anticipating was to find him lying on the floor, clutching his face in his hands and sobbing.

James would never have labeled himself as anything even remotely close to ‘caring’ or ‘empathetic.’ He was, in M’s own terms, a blunt instrument, deployed when a trigger needed to be pulled and a threat put down. Double 0s were paid to be calculating, not compassionate, and he was good at that. But seeing Q in a crumpled mess made him unpredictably uncomfortable. He could not stop his brain from flashing images of Vesper curled in a tight ball under the cold shower stream their first night together. Memories he thought were dead made themselves very much alive, and with them came the old heartache. 

As soon as Q noticed him, he immediately sat up and quickly dried his face with the sleeve of his cardigan, countenance a combination of embarrassment and hurt. It looked as if he had been there for hours; hair a complete mess, eyes bloodshot, cheeks bright red. Bond had always known him to be logical and fairly unemotional, made up more of witty banter than sentiment. But he was also young.

“007. You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, obviously doing his best to look collected despite his remaining shortness of breath.

“Neither should you,” James replied and unceremoniously slid to the floor to sit at his Quartermaster’s side. “Talk. It will make you feel less sick.” 

Q grimaced and looked as if he might vomit.

“I could have saved her,” he started in a hushed tone, not looking James in the eye. “If I had just planned a little better she would still be alive. I should have seen it coming…” 

“You knew when you took this job that not all of us would make it out,” James offered (probably more bluntly than he should have). This made Q shiver.

“Tell me, then, how do you live with it? How do you learn to forgive yourself?” 

The resolve in his voice cracked, and James was afraid that he might break down again. The truth of the matter was it never got better, but he didn’t want to tell Q that. He didn’t want to tell him that the guilt stays forever, slowly eating away at the heart of your character like a parasite from hell. He didn’t want to tell him that working with the Double 0s was a glacial form of suicide that killed you slowly while you trade your values to clear your conscious, and even then it only postpones the pain. No matter how much you steel yourself, no matter how cold and distant you become, no matter how much you buffer with drugs and drinks and sex, the weight of fault never lifts. He didn’t want to tell Q that there is no real forgiveness. However, he couldn’t bring himself to lie, so instead of saying anything he silently tucked his fingers in Q’s hair and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“Is that supposed to be an answer?” 

The words were supposed to be a question, but to both their ears sounded more like an affirmation. 

James did not protest when Q curled against his chest, and Q did not argue when James stroked his hair. It was only a few moments before he felt the dampness of noiseless tears bleed through his shirt. To most agents, and even himself most days, it would have been a sign of weakness; a red flag that the young man wasn’t cut out for the job and should walk away. But he had not thought that of Vesper then, and he did not think it of Q now. He just desperately hoped this was not an omen of shared fate. James didn’t bother to keep an eye on the time, but at least two hours must have passed before Q’s breathing finally evened out into the smooth rhythm of sleep. It was a soothing juxtaposition to both the commanding quartermaster and distraught young man to see him finally at peace. Well, at least he hoped sleep equated to peace in this instance. James knew first hand that was not always the case. 

***  
Q’s head was throbbing even without opening his eyes, so he chose to do nothing but lie in darkness for a few moments. His chest ached, his limbs were sore, and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls, but at least the suffocating choke of death had subsided. A wave of relief washed over his whole body, though, when he isolated the warmth of a calloused hand resting on his neck. Much of the time after 004’s failed mission was lost in a haze of grief and guilt, but not Bond staying with him the whole night. That he remembered quite clearly.

“Your minions are starting to assemble,” Bond said against the shell of his ear. “They’ll be expecting you soon.”

Q groaned with misery, but finally forced himself to open his eyes. They were still on the floor of his office, barely propped up against the side of the desk, but he was also still wrapped in Bond’s arms tight against his chest. Though he knew he should be embarrassed, Q’s first reaction was that of relief. There was nowhere else on earth he could be that would feel safer. In the midst of fighting with his own failure, there was no one else alive he would rather turn to. Even if he never would say it out loud. 

“You’re probably right,” Q muttered and adjusted his specs on the bridge of his nose, hoping he would look something that resembled appropriate. He made a mental note that anyone who brought up that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday would lose their job.

But neither of them moved. They simply sat in silence while Bond draped one arm around Q’s waist and used his free hand to entwine his fingers with Q’s. Every so often he would nuzzle against his hair or trail light kisses along his neck, just as Q had often seen him do to seduce women on missions. He now understood how it was so effective. However, there was nothing faked or forced about the careful contacts. They were affection. They were warmth. They were comfort. They were absolutely everything Q needed.


End file.
